Cetera Desunt
by holadios
Summary: No, Cameron, I know. You're the one who doesn't remember...A brutal attack leaves one doctor with no memory, one doctor with no life, and one doctor with no answers. Can you figure it out? Slightly Hameron.
1. A Priori

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything. At all.

**A/N:** Yes, another story. This one is going to be quite interesting in its narrative style; it might be confusing at first, but you will catch on soon. Just bear with me in the beginning. A million thanks to Melissa for helping me find my muse again last night, taking this story to the next level, and of course, beta reading this first chapter (and now that I think about it, I think you've beta'd the second one already too). Shout out to Pandorama, who added me to her author alert list just minutes before I uploaded this chapter, and will now receive an email announcing its publication.

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Her eyes snapped open to an unfamiliar scene. She could have sworn she had known where she was, but she didn't recognize anything. She was in a car, but the car's interior was unfamiliar. She realized she was not the one driving, as her hands were folded in her lap. Her next realization was that she had no idea who was driving. She turned her head left to see.

She frowned. How had she gotten here? Why was she in a car with House? Was this his car? Did he even _own_ a car? It had to be Wilson's, probably taken without permission. She twisted her hands nervously in her lap and then looked down. Her fingers were wrapped around something glossy.

She was holding a stack of photographs. She lifted them slowly to her face. The first one was of a man who was clearly dead; the background showed the familiar bluish tint of the morgue lights, and he was covered only by a thin, white sheet. He had bruises on his face and his brown hair was caked with blood. She recognized her handwriting on the white part of the Polaroid.

_Wilson._

She frowned and flipped the photograph over, hoping for more clues. She found a line of text that had been scratched out, and then another line in her handwriting beneath it:

_Someone wanted him dead._

Wilson was dead? And someone had wanted him to be that way – someone had murdered him? She shuddered. When had he died? Why didn't she remember his death? Surely she would have gone to his funeral.

Biting her lip, she flipped to the next paragraph in the stack. Her eyes met the picture of a gruff-looking man with very blue eyes. He stared up at her from the Polaroid as though he could see through the glossy exterior into her very soul. It was a picture of House. She had written his name beneath the picture. She flipped it over. There was another crossed out line, and then one line of her own writing.

_He will help you because he wants answers._

She wondered what kind of answers he wanted. "House?" she asked.

He looked over at her as he pulled the car to a stop in front of a red light. "Remembered me, have you?"

"I didn't forget you," she told him. "I knew your name without the photograph." He just smirked and continued driving. "Where are we going?" she asked uncertainly.

"To the morgue," he said simply. "There is someone that we have to see."

She bit her lip. "Are we going to see Wilson?" _Maybe the funeral hadn't happened yet._

House shook his head. "No."

She waited for him to continue, but he didn't, so she turned back to the stack of photographs in her hand. She moved House's photograph to the bottom of the pile and looked at the next one. This one wasn't a Polaroid picture, but a scrap of paper with a crude stick figure drawing. The name below the figure was Vincent Carpenter, but it hadn't been written in her handwriting. She recognized the practically illegible scrawl of House. She turned the piece of paper over. This time there were three lines of text in her handwriting, but only one hadn't been crossed out.

_Dead._

She looked back at House and showed him the photograph. "Is this the guy we're going to see?"

"Wrong again, but thanks for playing." He turned into the parking lot.

She sat back in her seat as he parked the car. "Are you going to tell me anything?"

"Are you going to _remember_ anything I tell you?"

She glared at him. "You know, it's not like I chose to live this way."

He looked back at her. "How would you know, seeing as you can't remember how it happened?" She heard the bite of annoyance in his voice and wondered if they'd had this conversation several times before. "Out of the car, let's go."

She threw him a look before swinging her legs out of the car. She found it rather annoying that he refused to explain to her what they were doing, even though she knew he must feel equally as annoyed that he'd probably explained it to her and she had forgotten. Her condition was the most annoying part of all.

He led the way into the building and down the stairs to the morgue. She tried to ask him again what they were looking for, but he silenced her with his hand. As they approached the doors, a lab tech with his nose in a file walked out; House seized the opportunity and pulled her inside before the doors could shut. He rushed over to the drawers and began reading the labels. At each one, he shook his head and went on to the next. She looked around in embarrassment; she doubted anyone in the building even knew who House was. The last thing she wanted was to get caught going through bodies with him in a place they weren't authorized to be.

"House, we should leave. We shouldn't be here--"

"Shut up and help me," was his only response. "The name is Terrence Doyle. Start looking."

The name didn't sound familiar, but she did as she was told. She walked over to the drawers and began scanning the labels. With both of them working, they were able to cover more ground, and it was only a minute after she had begun searching that House found the right one. He gestured to her and she approached slowly. He grasped the handle and pulled it open.

Terrence Doyle had dark hair and looked utterly unfamiliar to her. She wondered if she was supposed to have recognized him. House didn't show any signs of grief at seeing the body. Instead, he gestured to the side of Doyle's head at the obvious bullet hole.

He stared at the dead man for another moment before declaring, "Suicide." He shook his head and muttered, "Coward."

She bit her lip. "Don't say that," she admonished softly. "You don't know what he went through…he might have been depressed, or terminally ill, or psychotic. For all you know--"

"I know plenty," he snapped at her. "Suicide is more than he deserved."

She stared at him indignantly. "House, you don't know--"

"No, Cameron, I know," he said sharply. He sighed and turned back to her. "You're the one who doesn't remember."

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**A/N:** Please review; I would love to know what YOU (yes, YOU!) are thinking. I believe the second chapter is written and beta'd, so you can expect to see it posted soon.


	2. The Patient

­­**Disclaimer:** I know this will come as a shock, but I still own nothing.

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone who reviewed the first chapter. I know it's a bit confusing, but it will all be clear in the end. "A Priori" is Latin for "before knowledge" - hopefully once this story is done, you will have all the knowledge you need to understand what happened in the first chapter. This chapter might be confusing as well (as to how it relates to the previous chapter), but it will also make sense in the end. My advice: cetera desunt.

A million thanks to Melissa, who beta'd this chapter and also frequently betas my life. Literally. She even composes my text messages.

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"And in the end," he exclaimed, his eyes alight with excitement, "in the end, Snape kills Dumbledore!"

"Jordan!" his mother said reproachfully. "I'm sorry," she said, turning to Cameron. "I hope he didn't just ruin the ending for you."

Cameron shook her head. "No – I mean, yes, he did – but it's okay. I don't read _Harry Potter_." She turned back to her nine-year-old patient. "Now, what did you say that you swallowed?"

"A bunch of houses," he said proudly. "I wiped out Boardwalk and Park Place!"

His mother sighed exasperatedly. "Jordan, how many times do I have to tell you? You can't eat plastic!"

Cameron smiled reassuringly at him as she pressed her hands against his abdomen. "So did you skip ahead to the end of the book, or did you read the whole thing?"

Jordan laughed. "I skipped ahead, duh! The ending is the best part!"

"But what if you missed something important in the middle?"

He shrugged. "I went back and read it again. But the ending is the most fun so I wanted to read that first."

Cameron smiled. "His abdomen seems fine, Mrs. Lehman. The houses don't seem to be causing any pain and they're not hindering the function of any major organs, as far as I can tell. I'm ordering an X-ray just to be sure, but I think he will be fine."

"Thank you," she said with an obvious note of relief in her voice. "Say 'thank you' to the doctor," she told her son.

"Thank you," Jordan repeated mechanically as Cameron pulled the curtain shut behind her with a smile and a small wave. She scribbled some notes onto the clipboard and handed the nurse the order for the scan. The nurse took the form and gave her another clipboard in exchange.

"She's in curtain three," the nurse told her. "It looks pretty bad. Someone beat the crap out of her."

Cameron pulled back the curtain and her eyes fell on a bloody mess. The woman had light brown hair that was matted with blood and bruises were already swelling around her eyes and on her cheeks. There was also a deep purple bruise on her wrist: the shadow of a hand. Cameron looked down at the clipboard for the woman's name.

"Elena?"

She couldn't keep the tone of surprise from her voice. Elena Carpenter lived a few doors down from her at their apartment complex. Cameron didn't know the husband particularly well, but she had seen him on a few trivial occasions, passing him on the stairs or running into him while collecting mail. She knew Elena a bit better, as both women tended to go jogging on the same path near the apartment complex. Elena had always seemed happy whenever Cameron saw her. She had never had any reason to suspect that Elena was anything other than a career-driven woman, happily married to her husband; perhaps she had run into a violent stranger on her way to work?

"Allison?" Elena was clearly shocked as well. Cameron noticed the color rising in her cheeks. "I – I didn't realize that you still worked here. I thought when you said you'd left Dr. House you meant that you'd left the hospital -"

Cameron shook her head. "I guess I found that I just couldn't leave…the hospital, that is," she clarified. "The Dean of Medicine heard about what had happened and offered me a position here in the E.R., and it was more convenient than trying to find another job, so I accepted it." She rolled up a stool and sat on it, pulling out a pen as she did so. "Anyway," she said, dropping her tone, "can you tell me what happened to you?"

Elena's lower lip trembled. "I know that it looks really bad," she began, her voice wavering. "But I promise you it's not like that. Vince has never really been violent with me before – I mean – at least, he hasn't been violent with me in awhile."

Cameron frowned and held out a finger. "Follow my finger with your eyes," she instructed. Elena was able to do it. "Good," she said, making a note on the chart.

"Please, Allison, you have to understand. He's harmless, really. He would never hurt me on purpose. He wasn't thinking clearly last night--"

"You received these bruises last night?" Cameron asked, her eyes narrowing as she examined the bruise on Elena's wrist. The bruise looked too fresh to be more than a few hours old.

"Well last night, and this morning," Elena amended quickly. "He just had a really bad day at work yesterday and he sort of lost control…I just – I must have said something that set him off, that's all. It's nothing serious, really. It's my fault, please don't tell anyone--"

"Wait," Cameron interjected. "He attacked you last night and this morning?"

Elena hesitated before answering, "Yeah – um – I guess he just didn't recover from last night. I mean, I think he was drinking a lot, so he probably didn't get much sleep and this morning I woke him up as I was leaving. I was trying to be really quiet, but the coffeemaker is rather noisy, so it must have woken him. And he – um – he came into the kitchen and was just really angry with me…"

Cameron swallowed hard as she jotted more notes down onto the clipboard. "Where did he hit you?"

"He – um – he hit me across the face," she said, gesturing to the bruises on her cheek and around her eye. "And then he punched me in the mouth." A bloody cut around her lip.

"And the bruise on your wrist?" Cameron prompted.

"He – uh – he grabbed my wrist, but I slipped and fell backward against the wall. "

"Okay," Cameron said slowly. "Elena, I need to see your back, if that's all right?" Elena nodded and Cameron moved towards her, slowly undoing the hospital gown tie. She gently slid the gown down her shoulders and cringed when she saw the dark bruises that had already formed. "We're going to need to get an X-ray for your back," she informed Elena. "These bruises look pretty bad."

"Take your hands off of her!" an angry male voice exclaimed. Cameron looked up as a tall man with thick black hair strode angrily into the curtained room. "Get the hell away from my wife!"

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**A/N:** Please review! The next chapter isn't written (yet), but having reviews can really lift a person's spirits and encourage them to continue...hint, hint.


	3. Diem Perdidi

**Disclaimer:** Still own nothing.

**A/N: **Thank you for the incredible response last time! I am thrilled by all of you that are intrigued by the mystery. I am sorry last chapter was unsatisfyingly short; this chapter is a lot longer. This chapter might clear up some things for you...at the very least, you should have an idea of how this story is written. Melissa, iby.

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She had to find a pen. Blue, black, red – she'd even take one of those gold gel pens that no one could ever see. She had to write it down. She had to remember. She yanked open all the drawers and rustled through them; why could she never find a pen when she needed one? All those times she'd had a pen in her pocket and not needed it, and now that she desperately needed one, she couldn't find one. How was this possible? Where had she put them all?

"I need a damn pen!" she yelled out in frustration. _Why the hell did this have to be so difficult?_

She couldn't forget this…she had to remember…she had waited too long for this moment to happen to just forget it…

_What was I looking for again?_

She frowned at the drawer she had just yanked open. It was full of loose notebook paper. She shuffled through it; there were also a few ballpoint pens. Nothing about the drawer seemed extraordinary; she wondered why she had opened it. She shrugged and then closed the drawer again.

She realized there was a piece of paper in her hand. She raised her hand and looked at it. House wanted her to meet him at his office tomorrow at noon. She was grateful that he had signed the note, but wished he had included a reason why he wanted her there. With a sigh, she tacked the note onto her bathroom mirror so she would see it the next morning, and then went off to bed.

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Cameron entered the familiar office. Through the glass wall, she could see House's current fellows seated in the diagnostics room while House stood at the whiteboard. By the way they were gesturing wildly with their arms, she supposed they were conducting a differential. She considered interrupting or trying to catch House's attention, but decided she could wait for him to finish. It wasn't quite noon yet.

He slammed his hands down on the table; she recognized the tell-tale signs of a House rant. It pained her that she could remember her years in diagnostics with him, but could no longer retain new memories for more than minutes. Her memory seemed to have ended with –

_Don't think about it! _Cameron warned herself. She had spent quite enough time dwelling on what she could no longer remember, but she was beginning to think no amount of time would improve her memory. She was resigned to being perpetually trapped in the present.

"Hey, Cameron."

She looked up at the sound of Thirteen's voice and smiled slightly at her in return. The brunette and her colleagues were leaving the diagnostic room, but at a pace that made Cameron suspect they were actually being given a lunch break today, as opposed to being forced to run a complicated diagnostic test during the lunch hour. She noticed that House hung back in the other room, waiting for her to join him. She waited until the fellows had left his office before entering the diagnostic room.

"I see you found my note," he greeted her.

She nodded. "I taped it onto my mirror so I wouldn't forget." She took a seat and looked up expectantly at him. "Why did you want me to come here?" she asked.

"Daddy needs a favor."

She didn't smile. "No, really."

He rolled his eyes. "All right, fine, don't help an old man out. We can talk about more _girly_ things, like our feelings. Today I'm feeling--"

"—bitter and alone," she finished for him, "like every other day."

"And even more so now that my best friend is dead and you don't remember how he died."

She felt her insides clench with guilt. She had seen the picture of Wilson in the morgue and knew he was dead, but she didn't know she had been there to see it happen. She squirmed in discomfort; she had seen someone die? Was that how she had lost her memory?

"So no one knows what happened?" she asked, disappointed.

"You're the only witness, and your memory is worse than my demented grandmother's was. We've talked about this before, Cameron. I don't want to go through it again."

She felt a twinge of annoyance and a yearning to understand, but she could see his frustration and didn't want to press the matter. "What's the real reason you called me here?" she asked.

"I was trying to think of things I haven't asked you yet. But it's not like you'll remember if I've already asked you anyway, so I guess it'll be new for you." He leaned forward. "Why were you with Wilson the night he died?"

She frowned. "I don't--"

"Oh, yes, you do," he told her. "This happened before he died, I know you remember what happened."

She sighed and closed her eyes. "Oh…yes," she said as the memory came into view. "He wanted to take me home and I said yes because I could see that he was upset about something."

House raised an eyebrow. "Did he pour his heart out over dinner and tell you what was wrong?"

She rolled her eyes. "We didn't go out to dinner, we just went back to my apartment—

"I see how it is!" he interjected. "You only help out the young, sexy ones. I should sue for discrimination!"

"And yes, he did tell me that he'd had a rough day," she continued, ignoring House. "I think he lost a patient…female, advanced lung cancer. He said her chances had been slim for a long time, but the husband still took it hard when she died."

"So he was sad a patient kicked it?" House was skeptical.

Cameron shook her head. "He was more upset by the husband's reaction. He said the husband was veryupset."

House's eyes narrowed. "Upset enough to do something stupid?"

"Like what, kill himself?" Cameron asked. "Kill Wilson? House, even if the patient were really upset, Wilson felt terrible about the wife's death. I'm sure that the husband would not have blamed him."

"Well, you'll excuse me if I don't trust your word on that one, Dory."

She ignored the jibe. "House, I don't—Where are you going?"

House had limped towards the door and was already starting down the hall before she caught up with him. "Where are you going?" she asked again. "House, where - ?" She noticed where the direction they were walking in. "Why are we going to Wilson's office?" she asked.

"I'm going to find out who the husband is," he told her. "Try not to forget that."

The door had been left unlocked. House opened it slowly and then motioned for Cameron to follow him. "Stand over there and be useless," he instructed. "I'm going to go through the files."

She frowned. "How will you know which one it is?"

He turned around, holding a file in his left hand. "Lucky guess." She opened her mouth to protest, but he added, "This is the one that he left open on his desk." He opened it. "Wife's name is Maggie, died of cancer, blah, blah, some boring medical stuff, oh, lookie here! The husband's name is Terrence. Let's pay dear Terry a phone call and offer our condolences!"

"House, no! I don't think that's a good idea--"

He pressed a finger to his lips as he held the receiver to his ear. He listened for a moment, and then his face broke out into a grin. "Yes, Terry, hello! I just heard about your wife's death and I'm calling to--" He suddenly broke off and his eyes widened in shock. He listened intently for a few moments, mumbled an indistinct comment about how he thought the person on the other end of the line could easily be mistaken for a man, and then hung up.

"What happened?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Some cop chick answered. Turns out Terrence bit the dust, same as his wife."

She raised her eyebrows. "Did they say why?"

"Nope," he said, putting the file back on the desk. "Come on, we're going on a field trip. We'll just have pay our respects in person."

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**A/N:** Are you beginning to see the connections? I hope so! Please review and tell me what you thought! The next chapter will hopefully be up soon.


	4. The Husband

**Disclaimer:** *checks* Still not mine!

**A/N:** I am so, so sorry that it has taken me so long to post another chapter. I hope that you haven't all given up on this story, because I really do want to get back to writing it. I started college in the middle of August, so that has taken up all of my time thus far. I will make an effort to write more though! (I am already contemplating writing chapter 5 tonight!)

**A/N:** Eternal thanks to my beta, whom I have now met in real life and shared a real life experience with - we met a hot jerk and his not-hot friend. It's sort of like House and Wilson, except that Wilson is not not-hot. Thank you for making this chapter not suck. And you know the suckage that existed before you magically transformed the suckage into not-suckage.

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Despite the man's obvious anger, Cameron didn't lower her gaze from his narrowed eyes. She placed her hand on Elena's shoulder and tentatively squeezed it. Elena looked up at her, fear evident in every line on her face, but Cameron only offered her a small, reassuring smile. Tucking her loose bangs behind her ear, she picked up Elena's chart from the bed and took a step toward Vince.

"Mr. Carpenter, your wife's injuries are potentially very serious. We need to take an x-ray of her back to assess the extent of internal damage."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not necessary," he said in a surprisingly even tone. He seemed to have calmed down considerably. "She doesn't need an x-ray; she'll be fine. She's had worse falls before."

"I don't think she fell this time," Cameron answered coolly. She finished scribbling an order for the x-ray and folded her arms across her chest, the paper clutched in her hand. She would give it to the orderly as soon as she got the chance; even though it seemed that Vince had gotten a grip on himself, she didn't want to leave Elena alone with him.

"Elena, honey, tell Allison you're fine so we can get you home. I've got a lunch meeting today, you know that. You know how I can't be late for my meetings." His tone had grown lighter still, but Cameron had a feeling it was rather forced.

She saw Elena swallow hard. Elena looked back and forth from her husband to Cameron, before finally settling on Cameron. "Allison, are you sure the x-ray is absolutely necessary? I mean, the bruises really aren't that bad, are they? I'm sure they'll heal with time…"

"Exactly!" Vince interjected. "Let's just put some ice on them and be done with it. Come on, honey. Let's get you home so you can rest." He wrapped his arm protectively around her shoulders.

Cameron shook her head. "I refuse to release her without an x-ray. If she leaves now, she'll have to sign a form stating that she left against medical advice."

"Yes, yes, that's fine," Vince told her. "She'll sign any form that will get her out of here, won't you, Elena?"

"I…" Vince's grip tightened slightly on Elena's shoulder. "I – I – of course, I'll sign it, dear…if you're sure that's the best thing to do."

"I'm sure it is," Cameron heard Vince tell his wife as her eye caught the orderly walking past the exam room. She signaled for the young nurse to come inside. When she did, Cameron stepped forward and handed her the sheet. The nurse read it and then nodded.

"I'll tell radiology to send someone down."

She felt Vince's eyes snap toward her. "What are you talking about? Elena, didn't we just agree that you weren't having x-rays?"

The nurse looked at Cameron uncertainly. "I'm ordering the x-ray," Cameron told her. "Please ask radiology to send someone down as quickly as possible. Mr. Carpenter has a lunch meeting."

"I said no x-rays!" Vince protested. "Allison, please, this can't be necessary. We don't have time for this. Elena, get your coat now. We're leaving."

"Elena, you don't have to do that," Cameron said loudly. "If you want the x-ray, I can arrange for someone else to take you home so Vince can leave. You need to think about your own health now, okay? Not his happiness." She tried to impress as much urgency and confidence in her tone as possible. Elena's face was growing paler with nerves.

"Elena, don't listen to her--"

"Vince!" Cameron snapped at him. "Let her make the decision herself."

Elena's eyes widened, her gaze darting back and forth between Cameron and Vince. She opened her mouth several times, but then closed it again, seemingly unable to make a decision for herself. Cameron waited calmly for her to reply; Vince looked ready to grab her and drag her out the door himself if she said she wanted to go through with the x-ray.

Elena opened her mouth again, and this time, she spoke. "Vince," she began softly. "I think we should listen to Allison. I – I think the x-ray would be a good idea, just to – just to be safe." She looked down at her hands. "I don't expect you to stay--"

"Honey," he began, and Cameron could definitely hear that his tone was forced, "if you stay, you will make me very unhappy." He dropped his tone and Cameron could barely make out his next words. "And you know how much I hate to be unhappy."

"Vince, you can leave," Cameron told him. "The nurse will be here any minute to take Elena to radiology and I don't want you to miss your meeting."

"I refuse to leave without my wife." He walked over to the chair and picked up her coat. "Come on, dear. Let's tell Allison we'll see her later."

Cameron bit her lip as she watched Elena struggle again with indecision. Internally, she was struggling with a decision of her own. While there was no law that she had to report the domestic violence, she knew that she would, absent a compelling reason not to. What she was unsure about was whether or not she should let Vince know her plan. On the one hand, she could use it as a threat to ensure Elena got her x-ray. On the other, she didn't want to anger him further. She hoped it wouldn't come to that, but her patient's care always came first.

When Elena glanced over at her coat and stood up from the bed, Cameron had made her decision. Just as Vince was helping his wife into her coat, Cameron spoke up. "Vince, if you make her leave before she gets this x-ray, I will report you for domestic violence."

Vince froze. He looked at her, and for the first time since he'd come into the exam room, she saw him make no attempt to hide his anger. He rounded on her and shoved her up against the wall. "You will do no such thing!" he spat in her face.

Cameron stared back at him, despite the fear she felt rising in her chest as he shoved her against the wall again. "Vince, let me go," she said as evenly as possible.

"You will not report me!"

"Vince!" Elena shrieked.

The door swung open and Vince released Cameron immediately. Another nurse had entered. Cameron was relieved to see he was from radiology.

"Everything okay, Dr. Cameron?" he asked, glancing at her uncertainly.

Cameron exhaled slowly. "Just take her up to radiology," she told him.

Vince growled impatiently. "I said no!" he shouted angrily, starting toward her again. "Elena, let's--"

The nurse caught him across the chest and pushed him back. "I think it would be best if you waited outside," he said sternly. "Your wife's exam will not take long." Vince glared at him for a long time, but after taking in the considerable size of the nurse's biceps, he decided against further attempts to force his wife to leave. With a long look of contempt at Cameron, he exited the exam room.

As soon as the door swung shut, Elena turned to Cameron. "Allison, I'm so sorry! He didn't – he didn't hurt you, did he?"

"No," she reassured her, "but Elena, you can't go back to him. He could--"

"You can't report him," Elena told her earnestly. "Please, Allison, please promise me that you won't. He's a great guy, I promise that he is. He is just going through a hard time. He isn't normally like this, and he is probably still feeling the effects from last night."

"Elena…"

"No, Allison, please listen to me! You can't report him – you just can't. Look, if it happens again, I will report him myself. I promise you. Please, just – just trust me on this. You will only make it worse if you report him for such a silly mistake."

Cameron sighed and looked out the exam window where Vince was standing outside, waiting impatiently. She knew a domestic violence case would be difficult to stop if the victim was unwilling to stop it herself. Reporting Vince would do nothing if Elena refused to press charges, or if she denied the abuse. And she certainly didn't want to make matters worse. She noticed Wilson outside the window a few feet from Vince and wondered briefly what the oncologist would do. He would probably agree with Elena; he always seemed to be on the patient's side. Then again, when the foe was cancer, he couldn't exactly be on anything but the patient's side.

She sighed again and tore her thoughts and view from what was outside the window. "Okay," she said quietly. "I won't say anything this time."

"Thank you, Allison!" Elena said, clearly relieved. "I knew that I could count on you!"

Cameron only managed a weak smile at her as she watched the radiology nurse sit her patient into a wheelchair and wheel her out of the room. Cameron grabbed the chart before exiting the room herself. She hadn't taken more than three steps out the door before she felt a rough hand around her wrist.

She whipped around to find herself once more facing a furious Vince. Fear filled her again as he pulled her closer to him and hissed, "If you know what's good for you, you won't tell a soul." He released her roughly, pushing her away from him. He turned on his heel and walked away without another word.

Cameron stayed rooted to the spot, breathing heavily, and rubbing her wrist. She waited until Vince was almost out of view before turning abruptly and taking off as quickly as she could in the opposite direction.

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**A/N:** Please review and I will post the fifth chapter as soon as possible! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I would love to know what you thought!


	5. Multa Paucis

**Disclaimer:** Oh, look at that! I still own nothing.

**A/N:** It was great to see the response from all of you last time! I'm glad that the two month wait didn't cause all of you to abandon this story. Here is the next chapter, as promised. I don't know when the next one will be up - fall break ends tonight. But hopefully you won't have to wait too long.

**A/N:** I cannot thank my lovely beta enough for her work on this chapter, especially the last part. If you love it, then you should be thanking her too. If you don't...well, then I guess that just sucks for you (yes, you, Pandorama. You have been warned.)

* * *

She twirled the piece of paper absently in her hands. It wouldn't ordinarily be a significant piece of paper, but to her it represented her life, or what had been taken from it. On one side of the paper, there was a crude drawing of a stick figure. House's barely legible writing beneath the stick figure told her the stick figure was supposed to represent Vince Carpenter. She frowned, trying to remember why Vince Carpenter was relevant. Last time she had seen him, he had been storming out of the ER.

_But you can't be sure_, she told herself, frustrated. She knew there was no use in trying to remember; there would be nothing in her memory after that night with Wilson. She sighed and turned the paper over. This time she recognized two lines in her own writing.

_He tried to kill you._

_He is the one who stole your memory._

Her eyes widened. Vince had stolen her memory? He had been the one in her apartment that night? He had – he had attacked Wilson? Wait, Wilson… What had happened to Wilson?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the House's entrance. He was carrying a pizza box. She frowned; when had he gotten here?

"House…What are you doing here?"

"I'm doing the same thing I always do here. Feeding you dinner and making sure you don't hurt yourself. Here," he said, thrusting the box at her. "Eat up!"

She caught the box and opened it. Half a pepperoni pizza remained inside. She set the box and the scrap of paper down and took a slice. As she ate, she pondered what she had been thinking about before House had interrupted her. He sat down next to her and picked the sheet up from the table.

"Looking at this again?" he asked. "Makes you wish you had a photographic memory right now, doesn't it?"

She frowned. "That wouldn't help, would it?"

He shook his head and put the scrap of paper down. "No."

Cameron swallowed the last piece of pepperoni on her slice and began working on the crust. "House," she began softly, "what happened to Wilson?"

He sighed loudly. "For god's sake, Cameron." He stood up from the couch and threw a photograph at her. "If you're going to play with your memory flashcards, can you at least go through all of them?"

She bit her lip and looked at the photograph he'd tossed her. Her breath caught in her throat. It was Wilson, dead, lying on a slab in the morgue. She flipped the photograph over.

_He died trying to protect you._

Her eyes widened. Protect her…from what? From whom? From Vince? She swallowed hard. House's best friend…had died trying to protect her. She was the reason Wilson was dead…and she had been heartless enough to ask where House where he, Wilson, was now…Tears filled her eyes as she looked back to where House was standing listlessly next to the wall opposite her.

"House…" she whispered. "House, I'm so sorry…" She blinked and tears began slipping down her cheeks. "House, please…"

"Oh, stop crying!" he snapped at her. "What you feel isn't real pain! If your memory resets before you're done crying, you won't even know why you were upset in the first place." He strode towards her and towered over her, yelling, "You get to forget what happened to you - and what happened to him - but I have to remember it over and over again." Her eyes widened and she leaned as far away from him as possible.

"No one knows what happened in your apartment the night Wilson died. No one knows what happened because you can't tell them. Wilson is _dead_ because of this, and I don't know what happened to him. And I get to make you feel bad about this, not because I'm a jerk, but because in five minutes, this conversation will become nothing. It only exists right now for you. And I can't do this anymore, Cameron. I don't want to relive every moment with you."

She could only blink. Her insides were swarming with guilt. She had to say something, something to make House believe that she had never meant to hurt Wilson, that she had never meant to cause him this much pain…

She blinked again. "House?"

She saw him close his eyes and turn away from her. She wondered why he was so upset. She dropped her gaze the table and picked up a photograph of him. She frowned and turned it over. She found a line of text in her handwriting.

_Hates you for killing his friend._

She swallowed hard and looked up at him. "You don't hate me, do you?" she whispered.

He stared back. He sighed. "No, Cameron. I don't hate you." He looked at her curiously. "Why?"

She held up the photograph. He looked at the writing and then pulled a pen out of his pocket. "Cross that out," he told her. She thought she heard a hint of sadness.

She took the pen. "What's wrong?" she asked hesitantly.

He sighed heavily. "Nothing. I just thought you had…never mind. It doesn't matter now. Just cross it out."

She did as she was told and then glanced up expectantly at him. "What should I write instead?"

He sighed again before answering, "Will help you because he wants answers."

* * *

"What happened?"

"Car v. semi-truck. This guy's the driver; woman was in the passenger seat."

"Trauma One!"

"House!"

"Take her to Trauma Two, let's move, people!"

"House!"

He turned to look at Cuddy. "You rang?"

Her face softened slightly at his tortured expression. "It's not going to help you to sit in the ER all day, you know. You should do something else – your team has cases you could look at--"

"Foreman is getting on fine," House answered her quietly. "Besides, you're short an attending in the ER. I want to make sure these idiots do their job correctly."

She couldn't help but notice the bitterness in his voice. "How is she?" she asked hesitantly.

"She still doesn't remember."

Cuddy sighed. "Of course she doesn't, House. She's not going to remember, either."

"That doesn't make it any easier, okay?" he snapped. He turned away from her and watched the doctors and nurses in Trauma Two. He didn't find them very interesting. The woman must have been DOA; they were already giving up and it had barely been five minutes. He watched the attending leave the room.

"Tell the police she had her wallet on her – name was Elena Carpenter," he overheard the attending tell the nurse. House raised his head as the nurse walked past. He narrowed his eyes and squinted to see if he could make out what was happening in the other trauma room. It was too far away. He grabbed his cane and began limping over.

"House, where are you going?" called Cuddy. He ignored her.

He pushed open the trauma room door. Alarms were screaming; he could tell the man was in V-fib, though he couldn't have cared less. He hoped the man died.

"Is this Vince Carpenter?" he asked loudly.

"I don't know!" the attending exclaimed in exasperation. "Who the hell cares right now? Charge to 360!" The paddles were charged. "Clear!"

"I care," House said, louder still. "Let the bastard die. He's the reason this hospital is short a department head."

The attendant just started at him. "Charge again!" he ordered.

"What's he talking about?" House heard one of the med students ask one of the nurses.

"Haven't you heard?" another med student answered before the nurse could. "You know that gorgeous doctor in oncology? The one with the cute dimples? He was murdered earlier this week!"

"What!"

House couldn't stand it anymore. "Get the hell out of the way!" he snarled to the attending. He tore the paddles from the attending's hands, ignoring the ER doctor's protests. He leaned over Vince and shouted above the shrill alarms from the monitors, "You are going to die, you bastard!"

"House!"

"Do you hear me?"

"House, step away now!" Cuddy yelled, tugging at his arm.

He froze. This – no – this couldn't be –

He dropped the paddles and stepped back from the gurney. He didn't protest as he allowed Cuddy to escort him from the room, and he didn't listen as she chastised him over and over for his rash actions.

They didn't matter anyway. He had had the wrong man.

* * *

"Cameron, did you hear me?"

She looked up and saw House sitting next to her on the couch (When had he gotten here?). "I – I'm sorry, House, what did you say?"

"I asked for your photographs."

"Oh…" _Her photographs?_ She then realized she was holding something in her hands – three photographs. The top-most one wasn't actually a photograph; it was a scrap of paper with a stick figure on it. She handed them over.

House looked at the top one and then turned it over. "He tried to kill you and he is the one that stole your memory," he read quietly. He took a pen out of his pocket and crossed both lines out, then handed the photograph and pen back to her. "You were wrong," he said.

"Wrong?" she repeated. "What do you mean?"

"This isn't the man who tried to kill you," he told her.

She just stared at him. (Someone had tried to kill her?) "How do you know?" she asked.

He shook his head wearily. "I just do."

She uncapped the pen. "What should I write?"

"Just write that he's dead."

She obeyed and then handed the photograph back to him. "What about the others?" she asked.

He looked at the next photograph and showed it to her. It was of Wilson (Dead in the morgue? When had that happened?). He turned it over and opened his mouth to read something, but fell silent.

"What?" she urged him. "What does it say?"

"He died trying to protect you," House read. He handed the photograph back to her. "I don't think that's true anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"Cross it out," he told her. "Just cross it out and write that someone wanted him dead."

"Someone wanted him dead?"

"Yes, that's what I said," he snapped at her. "Stop repeating everything I say."

She obeyed and then handed the pen and photograph back to him. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. She wished she could ask him the questions she was burning to ask, but she could tell he was already in a bad mood. She hated herself for it. She knew it was her own mental handicap that had made him this upset.

"Don't be," he said, but she heard the resentment. He turned away from her again.

"Hey," she said quietly. She reached out to touch his shoulder. "House? I know that this must be – this has to be hard for you. But it's hard for me, too, okay?" She felt him tense beneath her touch and she immediately backpedaled. "I mean – I am sure it's harder for you to know…everything…and I – I just wanted to say that I…I appreciate your patience."

She felt him sigh and then he turned around. "Well," he said, "I'd say 'you're welcome,' but..." He stared at her for a moment and then said, "You know, I could tell you I love you and you would never know."

She was caught completely off-guard. Her eyebrows flew into her hair as she asked, "Is that true?"

"What do you think?"

"I'm not sure."

"Amnesia's made you wishy-washy." He paused and then asked, "Do you really expect me to think you'll remember this in five minutes anyway?"

She dropped her gaze to her hands and whispered, "No."

He touched her cheek gently and then titled her chin up to meet her eyes. "Good," he told her before he kissed her.

She allowed him three seconds before she pulled back abruptly and asked indignantly, "What the hell are you doing?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I thought it was pretty obvious what I was doing."

She rolled her eyes. "I know _what_ you were doing. I want to know why you were doing it."

"I wanted to give you an incentive to come to my office tomorrow." He smirked at her and then stood up from the couch. She followed suit. He scribbled a note on a piece of paper and handed it to her. "Try not to forget where it is."

She set the note absently down on the table and then followed him to the door. "House, I…"

He turned around suddenly, cutting her off. "Just so you know, it wasn't only a game to me."

* * *

**A/N:** Please review; I would love to know what you thoughts...any predictions? Guesses? Part of the mystery is playing along. I'm surprised no one has figured out which movie this was inspired from, or the significance of the chapter titles...I've said too much!


	6. The Survivor

**Disclaimer:** Nothing is mine.

**A/N: **Thank you for the great response on last chapter; it was one of my favorites to write so far. I'm sorry it took me 20 days to post this chapter. I cannot believe how much time has gone past; it feels like just yesterday for me. I've been absolutely swamped by RL and my beta has been busy as well - and believe me, you don't want to read the version of this story before Melissa touches it. I will try to be more diligent about updating this week. Ideally, another chapter or two would be posted by the end of the week. Sorry in advance this chapter seems more filler, but it is important in the story.

**A/N:** Melissa, you have the Midas touch.

* * *

"Cameron!"

She jumped upon feeling the sudden touch on her shoulder. She quickly turned around to find out who was calling her name. Relief filled her when she saw it was only Wilson. He was standing in front of her with a look of uncertainty on his face.

"I'm sorry," he said hesitantly. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Cameron nodded, brushing off his apology, as she slowed her breathing back to its normal rate. She chastised herself for being so skittish; she had been ever since Vince had grabbed her wrist that morning. She knew he and Elena had long left the hospital (the x-rays had revealed no serious injuries), but that didn't stop her from feeling anxious anytime someone touched her arm.

"It's fine," she muttered.

Wilson looked unconvinced. "Is everything…okay?" he asked. "You're not normally this jumpy."

"Everything is fine," she said slowly, giving him a long, surveying look. "Why?"

He shrugged. "It's just that I saw – I mean, I was down in the E.R. earlier today at the nurse's station – one of my patients was coming in again – and I saw an angry-looking man waiting outside your exam room."

"Ah…" It was starting to make sense now. She had seen Wilson outside of the exam room, too. She had thought about him when she had been making her decision about whether or not to believe Elena when she said not to go to the police. Although, after what Vince had said, could she really go now anyway…?

"Cameron?"

His voice brought her back to reality. "Sorry…Yes, I had a domestic violence case earlier today. That was the husband waiting outside. He didn't want the wife to get an x-ray."

His brow furrowed. "Did you report it?"

Cameron shook her head. "I was going to…but the wife begged me not to. She said it would only make things worse."

Wilson continued to frown. "Do you believe her?"

She sighed. "I didn't report him. I really should have, but she insisted she would report him herself if he ever touched her again…They're my neighbors, and I really didn't want to cause any more--"

"Wait," Wilson interrupted her, "you live near this guy?"

"They live just down the hall," she told him.

He looked at her seriously. "Are you going to be okay…? Going back to your apartment tonight, I mean."

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I…" His voice trailed off and he cleared his throat; it seemed as though he were steeling himself to say something. "I …noticed earlier, that when you left the exam room, he grabbed your wrist in the hallway…I didn't mean to stare, I just happened to be looking that way…I don't mean to be so upfront, but I thought you looked scared when he released you. I – I could be wrong – but I wanted to make sure you were…."

"I'm fine," she cut him off. "I – yes, he did grab my wrist, and he told me not to tell anyone. But I'll be fine, really. I'm not that worried."

"But you're still worried," Wilson pointed out quietly.

She shook her head. "No, I'm--" She was interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone. With an apologetic glance at Wilson, she answered. "Hello? Oh, hi, Janet. You're what?" She frowned. "I'm sorry to hear that…Okay, no, it's no problem. I'll just take the bus… Yes, I'm sure; it's no problem. Okay, see you later." Cameron closed her phone and dropped it into her purse. She looked up to find Wilson looking at her curiously.

"My car's in the shop. That was Janet, one of the nurses. She was going to give me a ride home, but she had to rush off to her son's soccer game; it looks like he hurt his ankle," she explained.

"And you're going to take the bus?"

She shrugged. "It's no problem. The stop is only a quarter mile from my house."

"I have my car," Wilson offered. "Let me drive you."

"No, that's okay," she said. "I'll be fine. I don't want to inconvenience you."

Wilson brushed off her reply. "Please, it's no trouble at all. You shouldn't have to take the bus home on a day like this."

She shook her head. "I don't want you to go out of your way."

"Cameron, be reasonable. You've been threatened by your neighbor and you plan on walking a quarter mile to your apartment at night. Does it really take a genius to figure out this is not a good idea?"

She sighed; he had a point. "All right, but only if you let me buy you dinner."

Wilson smiled. "Deal."

They had barely walked ten steps out the hospital door to the parking lot when Wilson suddenly stopped. Cameron stopped, too, looking around to see what had caused him to hesitate. She followed his gaze to a disheveled figure sitting on one of the benches. The man was sobbing heavily into his hands.

"Terrence," he murmured sadly.

"Who is he?" she asked.

"Husband of a patient," he whispered back. "His wife died today. Lung cancer."

"I'm sorry."

Wilson sighed heavily. "Me, too."

Terrence's sobs grew louder as they walked closer. Now Cameron was able to make out some of the words. "Dr. Wilson!" Terrence cried. "Dr. Wilson is a murderer. He – he killed my wife. He killed my Maggie…"

Wilson grimaced and Cameron gently touched his arm. "You know that's not true," she said quietly.

He sighed. "I know. That doesn't make it any easier."

"You don't – you don't want to say anything to him, do you?"

Wilson sighed again. "I should at least try to get him to leave…He shouldn't be here all night." Cameron nodded encouragingly and hung back as Wilson started toward the sobbing man.

"Terrence," he said softly, "you should go home, okay? You can't stay here."

Terrence looked up. "My wife was murdered today," he told Wilson through sobs. "Dr. Wilson – Dr. Wilson, he murdered her!"

Wilson looked at Cameron. "He doesn't know who I am," he mouthed, shaking his head hopelessly.

"Please," Terrence sobbed, grabbing Wilson by the collar of his shirt. "Please help me find Dr. Wilson. I have to – I have to--"

"I'm sorry, Terrence," Wilson said, gently pulling himself free of Terrence's grasp. "You have to leave now. Up you go." Taking him by the hand, he pulled Terrence to his feet. "You should go home now," he told him. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Terrence swayed on his feet and then managed to steady himself. "I can't go home," he whispered. "My wife is dead. I can't – I can't sleep without her…" He stared at Wilson without seeing and then turned abruptly on his heel and started off in the opposite direction. Wilson watched him for a few minutes before turning back to Cameron.

"Shall we?" he asked her tiredly.

"Looks like I'm not the only one who had a rough day," she muttered.

Wilson nodded. "I guess not." He reached for his car key and pressed the button twice to unlock the car. Cameron slid into the passenger seat.

They both heard one last anguished sob before Wilson shut the door.

* * *

**A/N:** Is it starting to come together? I hope so! Let me know what you think and I'll udpate again soon.


	7. Obiter Dictum

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**A/N:** Thanks to those of you that reviewed last time. As promised, another update! If you're reading Under the Same Moon, you're in for a double treat today, as I updated that story as well. Please help my swine flu/regular flu/bad cold/strep throat/other self feel better by leaving a review!

**A/N:** Melissa, iby.

* * *

"Who are we going to see in the morgue?"

House didn't answer, but looked at his watch instead. He waited about twenty seconds before answering flatly, "Your mom."

Cameron's mouth dropped open in horror. Her mother was dead? She couldn't breathe; this couldn't be happening. "I – I…" He wasn't even looking at her; he was just staring at his watch. How could he be so insensitive? How could he just _stand_ there?

"Three…two…one…"

Suddenly, Cameron's expression cleared. She realized her mouth was open and snapped it shut. She looked around at her surroundings; she was standing in a stairwell with cement stairs. House was standing a few steps above her, looking at his watch.

"What time is it?" she asked.

He sighed. "Never mind that. Come on, let's go." He began limping down the remaining stairs to the landing.

She followed him hesitantly. "Where are we going?"

"To the end of the rainbow!"

She rolled her eyes as she reached the landing. "No, where are we really going?"

"That's highly classified. It's on a need to know basis only – or, in your case, an ability to recall basis." He turned and walked down the next flight of stairs. Cameron noticed he had a camera bag around his shoulder, and wondered what he wanted to take pictures of.

It wasn't until they reached the doors of the morgue that either of them spoke again. Cameron shot House a quizzical look. "We're going to the morgue?"

"No, of course not! We're clearly going to the _other_ room on this level."

She ignored him. "Who died?"

She distinctly saw him clench his jaw. "You'll see soon enough," he muttered in a low growl. Cameron thought it best not to ask anything else and silently followed House through the doors. Once inside, House glanced around carefully and then made his way to the table farthest on the left, Cameron at his heels.

"Oh my…" she gasped when the body came into view.

It was Wilson. His body was covered by a thin white sheet, but the skin she could see was pale and waxy under the bluish lights of the morgue. She noticed the blood caked into his brown hair and the deep bruises on his cheeks. The sight of him made her nauseous; what the hell had happened? Terrified, she looked at House. House was staring at the lifeless body of his best friend without moving; it seemed as if he were hardly breathing. His face remained devoid of emotion, but his eyes were hard as he stared at the body. Cameron knew he was thinking about what he wanted to do to the murderer.

"When?" she asked in a choked voice.

House waited a few moments before answering slowly, "Two nights ago."

Cameron swallowed hard. "Do you – does anyone – know what happened?"

"Isn't it obvious?" House snapped. "Someone beat the shit out of him."

She grimaced: that much was obvious. She was hesitant to inquire further, but she had to know. "But does anyone know _why_?" she asked quietly.

"Only the person standing in front of me."

"I – What?" Cameron felt her heart jump into her throat. She knew what had happened? But that couldn't possibly be true; she hadn't been there, she had no memory of being there, or of…anything.

"Then why don't I remember?"she wondered aloud.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" House sneered. "That's another one of those need to know, need to remember things. Meaning that I need to know, and you need to remember." He pulled out the Polaroid camera and aimed it carefully at Wilson's face. Once he had focused the frame, he pressed the button on top to take the picture. A Polaroid slid out.

"Here," he said, handing it to her. "Take this and pay attention to what I'm going to tell you. Take this, too," he said, giving her a pen. "You'll need to write this down." Cameron obediently took the Polaroid and pen from him and waited for her instructions. "Write his name on the front so you know who you killed."

She looked up, horrified at his words. "I – I killed him?"

"As good as," House told her coldly. She slowly lowered her gaze back to the photograph and wrote Wilson's name on the white part of the Polaroid; she couldn't help but notice the picture was already starting to develop. She swallowed and turned the photograph over.

"He died trying to protect you," House dictated.

Cameron's eyes widened as she wrote down what House had dictated. "How – how do you know?" she asked in hushed tones.

"Cops found both of you lying on the floor of your apartment. One unconscious, one dead. Guess who died?"

She frowned. "But how do you know he died trying to protect me?"

House gave a loud sigh of exasperation. "Cameron, does it really take a genius to figure this out? Two days ago, you pissed a guy off in the E.R. after you treated his wife for what you said was domestic violence. Turns out, you managed to piss off your neighbor. It's generally not a good idea to piss off domestic abusers, especially not ones who live by you."

She felt sick. Vince had attacked her? He had threatened her in the E.R., but it had only been insurance to make sure she wouldn't go to the police…and she hadn't, unless she had and couldn't remember…It was all becoming so muddled. And how did he know it was Vince anyway?

"You have proof?"

House pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and reached out his hand for the pen. Cameron handed it slowly back to him. He quickly drew a stick figure, complete with a frowny face, and then scrawled the name 'Vincent Carpenter' below. He turned the paper over and handed the scrap and pen to her. "He tried to kill you," he instructed. "He is the one that stole your memory."

"Is that true?"

"It'll be true for you. Now every time you look at his picture and read what you wrote, you'll think it's true."

Her frown deepened. "But do you have _real _any proof?"

He shrugged. "Do I need any? It's not like you remember anything about who attacked you and I doubt they were shouting off reasons why." He hesitated and then asked, "You don't remember anything about who attacked you, do you?"

Cameron bit her lip and closed her eyes, trying to remember that night. She and Wilson had gone back to her apartment from the hospital…He was just supposed to drive her home, but he'd ended up staying longer because they'd ordered Chinese…They had talked…Someone had knocked on her door…She had gone to answer it, and then…

"A tattoo," she murmured.

"What?"

"A tattoo," she said, this time louder, and opening her eyes. "He had a tattoo of a rain drop on his wrist."

House stared at her skeptically. "If you're going to make shit up, you could at least make it more believable."

Cameron shook her head. "I'm not making this up."

He narrowed his eyes. "How do you know?"

"I saw it," she whispered. "I saw the tattoo on his wrist when his hand was on my door. I saw the tattoo right before he barged his way into the apartment."

House frowned. As terrible as her short-term memory was now, he knew that she could still remember details of things that happened before the attack. And if what she was saying was true…

He knew that if he ever saw Vince Carpenter again, he'd know exactly what to look for.

* * *

**A/N:** Three chapters to go!


	8. The Murderer

**Disclaimer:**I own...nothing!

**A/N:** Sorry for the long wait time, guys. This month has been brutal with the swine09 and the complications thereof. The good news is that chapter 9 has already been written and beta'd (my muse was having a field day yesterday) so it should be up very soon. My muse has already been working on the final chapter, but I'm trying to restrain it - I have a lot to do before Thanksgiving break! Thanks so much to those of you that reviewed last time, and especially to those that sent encouraging PMs. I am so thrilled to hear all of you are enjoying this story so much.

**A/N:** Much thanks to Melissa, whom I haven't spoken to in awhile, but managed to beta my work anyway. Try not to eat me for dinner again. :P

* * *

"So do you want to talk about it?"

It was almost eleven. Cartons of Chinese food littered the kitchen countertop. Cameron had just finished making tea and had entered the living room with two steaming mugs; Wilson was absently watching the beginning of the news hour.

He looked up as she approached and took the mug she offered him. "Do you?"

She sat down next to him on the couch and turned off the television with the remote. She considered him for a moment, and then said, "I will if you will."

"I will if you go first."

Cameron hesitated a moment, and then nodded slowly. "Okay," she said. She took a deep breath and then began. Wilson listened in silence as she described finding Elena in the E.R. and the injuries the victim had as a result of her abusive husband. Cameron told him about Vince's angry reaction when she told him Elena would need an x-ray, and how he had tried to force Elena to leave with him, but Cameron had been firm. "I told him if Elena didn't get the x-ray, I would report him for domestic violence," she said. "That's when he shoved me up against the wall."

Wilson started. "Jesus…" he muttered. "Did you call security?"

Cameron shook her head. "I didn't need to. The nurse arrived from radiology and Vince released me immediately." She continued, recounting how the nurse had told Vince to leave, and how before Elena had left for radiology, she had made Cameron promise not to report Vince for domestic violence.

"Then she left for radiology, and I left the exam room. That's when Vince grabbed my wrist and told me not to tell anyone, which you saw…" She trailed off awkwardly and then finished, "That's it." Cameron looked at him. "Your turn."

Wilson nodded with a sigh. "Where to begin…" he murmured.

"Is this where I tell you the best place to start is the beginning?" she asked, smiling.

Wilson laughed. "I suppose starting at the beginning would help… I first met Maggie about three months ago. She was referred to me by a friend who ran a clinical trial Maggie had participated in. The trial drug was unsuccessful. There wasn't really anything I could do."

Cameron frowned. "Why was she referred to you in the first place, then?"

"That's what I wanted to know. Turns out, my friend referred her to me because Maggie had no other options. She was going to die…She was sent to me for one last round of chemo, but part of me thinks it was only because my friend knew I'd be with her to the bitter end.

"It would have been easier if Maggie hadn't been one of the nicest cancer patients I've ever met. Very high-spirited, despite her grim prognosis, and her husband, Terrence, was very kind, too. Or at least, he seemed that way in the beginning. He was very nice whenever Maggie was having a good day. When she had a bad day, he was always angry and ready to take it out on everyone else, including Maggie herself sometimes. It as was though his mood was linked to her state.

"Maggie knew this, too. She told me she was worried about him, about how he would handle her death. I remember one night, about two weeks ago, when Terrence wasn't with her because he had a late business meeting, and he asked me to keep her company, so I did. Maggie and I talked for a long time, about a lot of things, but especially about death. She brought up the topic, I remember, by asking me how well the family members of cancer victims coped with their loved one's deaths. I told her it depended on the circumstance. She then asked how I thought Terrence would cope with her death. I told her I wasn't sure, but she told me just to be straight-forward. She said she knew he wasn't going to be able to cope well with her death, but that watching him have to deal with her dying was worse than anything. She said she'd rather die tomorrow and spare him the pain than live with him for however much longer she had before the cancer consumed her."

"What did you say?" Cameron whispered.

"Nothing," he responded. "I didn't say anything, and she just kept talking. She told me she had contemplated suicide, but couldn't figure out the best way or time to do it. She wanted to spare Terrence as much heartache as possible, she said. I still hadn't said anything, so she kept talking. She asked me if she could ask me a personal question, and I said she could. She asked me if I had ever helped a patient commit suicide."

Cameron's eyes widened. "You haven't, have you?"

Wilson hesitated slightly before answering, "Not like you." Cameron opened her mouth to respond, but Wilson answered her unspoken question, "House told me. I've never injected a patient with a fatal overdose of morphine, no. But I…" He cleared his throat. "I may have told the nurse the code to use on the morphine machine to unblock it from giving out too much morphine – and I may have told her when I knew Maggie could hear me."

Cameron swallowed hard. "But you don't know that she heard you, or that she was listening."

Wilson shook his head. "I'm pretty sure she did."

"How can you be so sure?"

Wilson sighed. "I told the nurse the code this morning. Maggie was dead only a few hours later."

"Couldn't that just be a big--"

"No," said Wilson. "You worked for House long enough to know something like that is not a coincidence."

Cameron didn't say anything for a minute, and then looked at him seriously. "Are you okay?"

"I just helped a cancer patient commit suicide. No, I'm not okay," he said quietly. "Terrence is right to call me a murderer, even if he doesn't know the circumstances."

"No, he isn't," Cameron said. "You were following a patient's wishes. You are _not_ a murderer."

Wilson smiled gratefully at her. "Thanks, Cameron." She returned his smile quickly as Wilson looked down at his watch. "It's almost midnight," he told her. "I should get going."

"Are you sure you want to leave?" Cameron asked him. "You can stay here if you want…It's late and you're upset, you shouldn't have to drive back now."

Wilson shook his head. "I don't want to impose," he told her as he stood up from the couch. "I'll be fine, really, I just--"

He broke off at the sound of someone knocking on the door. He flashed a glance at Cameron, who was frowning. "Late night booty-call?" he asked with a hesitant stab at humor.

"Only House would come to my door this late," she answered. Wilson raised his eyebrows. "But not for that!" she added quickly.

The knocking grew louder. They glanced at each other again. "That's something House would do," Cameron said, trying to convince herself as much as Wilson. "Should I…?"

"House would also be yelling through the door," Wilson pointed out. He looked uneasy. "Do you think it could be Vince?"

Cameron noticeably paled and Wilson regretted the words instantly. The knocking on the door grew louder still, reaching a steady pounding, and then whoever was on the other side began to force the lock. Cameron's heart began to race.

"Is there any other way out of the apartment?" Wilson asked.

"There's a fire escape in my bedroom," she answered in a whisper. "It's just--"

She never had a chance to finish her sentence. With a deafening bang, the door was finally forced open by a masked assailant. Cameron got one look at the rain drop tattoo on his wrist before his fist collided with her face and the entire world went black.


	9. A Posteriori

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**A/N: **Sorry it took me awhile to upload this chapter. I've just been really busy with school, and I had wanted to complete the piece before uploading this chapter, but...chapter 10 is still in the process of being written. No guarantees on when I'll finish it, because this is sort of hell week(s) for me and my beta. Thanks, once again, to all my encouraging reviewers.

**A/N:** Melissa, thank you for always being there. I hope work doesn't kill you because if it does, this story will never get done, since I can't write without you!

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It was black and she was in pain. Senses returned to her slowly: First she felt the pain in her head and the fatigue in her arm and leg muscles; then she felt the bed that she was lying on. There were voices nearby, talking angrily, though she couldn't quite make out what they were saying. She recognized the starch clean smell of linens and realized she must be in a hospital. Fear filled her; what was she doing in the hospital? She cast her mind around, trying to remember what she had been doing last, but found she could not recall. She cast her mind further back, trying to remember what had happened the previous day…A patient? She had been working in the E.R. She had been with Wilson…Where was Wilson?

She forced her eyes open, hoping one of the people speaking nearby would be able to give her some kind of explanation. She didn't recognize the man closest to her, the one wearing surgical scrubs. He was talking to a man with a cane and a tweed jacket. She only knew one man who would wear tweed to work. But what was House doing here? Their voices were becoming louder and she strained to hear what they were saying just outside the open door.

"What do you mean she won't remember anything?" House was shouting.

The surgeon shook his head. "She won't lose her memory completely," he responded. "She will still remember certain things – who you are, for example. She might even remember how to take a blood sample; we won't know the extent of the memory loss until she wakes up. However, it is clear from the scans that she will have no declarative memory and will not remember what happened to her. And she won't be able to form any new memories. Her short-term memory is gone. She will only remember everything up until the attack."

"That's just great," House said sarcastically. "Anterograde amnesia. So she'll know how to tie her shoes, but will have absolutely no recollection of who she is or what the hell happened to put her in this condition!"

"No," the surgeon corrected him. "She will know who she is. She hasn't forgotten her--"

"Please," House scoffed. "So she knows her own name, big deal. But she won't have any long-term sense of herself. She's frozen in the present. Tell me, how can a person still know who they are if they can never change?"

"I understand this is difficult," the surgeon said in clearly what he thought was a pacifying tone. "I know your friend was there, too--"

"Damn right he was, and I want to know what happened last night!"

"Please, Dr. House," the surgeon said cautiously. "I know you are upset. But you have to understand that she isn't going to remember what happened that night. Her assailant has permanently destroyed her memory. There was a lot of bleeding; you are lucky she survived."

"Lucky!" he exclaimed angrily. "My best friend is dead and you're calling me _lucky_?"

She didn't catch the surgeon's reply. Wilson was dead? She had – she had been with him when he had died? And now she would never know why. Anterograde amnesia was permanent if it was the result of brain damage. Tears filled her eyes slowly. She was stuck in the present until…until…

"I know you're awake, you know."

_House?_

She opened her eyes. She was lying in a hospital bed and in a great deal of pain. Her head was pounding. She swallowed hard, trying to wet her dry mouth enough to speak. "What happened?" she whispered.

House pushed a cup of ice chips to her and she took one gratefully. "Why don't you tell me?"

Cameron shook her head. "I don't remember. Why can't I remember?"

House just stared at her. "Three years of diagnostic work on my team and you can't figure that out?"

She just stared at him, and then opened her mouth to reply. "Anterograde amnesia – short-term memory loss."

He looked at her carefully. "How did you know?"

"What do you mean 'how did I know'?" she asked indignantly. "Three years on your team, you'd think I'd be used to coming up with a diagnosis quickly. All that's missing is the whiteboard."

"No, it's not that," said House. "How did you know it was anterograde amnesia? That's not the only thing that can cause memory loss."

"That was just a suggestion. I didn't think I would be – oh my god," she broke off. Anterograde amnesia…but how?

"Result of head trauma," House said quietly. "Any idea what happened last night?"

Cameron shook her head. "I was with Wilson…there was someone trying to get into my apartment. I think he made it in…"

"You think?" House scoffed. "He did make it in, FYI. Wilson is dead."

Her eyes widened. "Wilson is dead?"

"You know, this conversation would go twice as fast if you didn't repeat everything I said," House told her.

Cameron ignored him. "Does anyone know what happened?"

"No."

She bit her lip. "And there is no chance that I will…?"

House paused for a moment before answering quietly, "Again, no."

"How am I going to live like this?" she whispered.

"Don't look at me," House told her. "I've never dealt with any kind of handicap before. I have no idea what that feels like."

"But you don't have any idea what that feels like!" Cameron interjected. "You ignore your pain because you can control it with your Vicodin addiction. I can't make my memory come back."

"I can't make my leg muscle grow back," House responded bitterly.

"But you can still be a doctor!"

"You never know," he told her. "You still know how to take a blood sample, right?"

"That's not the point," Cameron said angrily. "You just told me I'll have no short-term memory for the rest of my life and all you want to know is whether or not I can take a stupid blood sample?"

"You just told me I'll never know how my best friend died and all you want to know is why I'm such an asshole? Same difference, really." He reached down into a bag by his feet and pulled out a box, which he tossed to her. "Here, catch."

She caught the box and opened it slowly. She pulled out a Polaroid camera. Cameron raised her eyebrows. "You bought me a camera?"

"Of course not," said House. "I already had it at my house. You really think I'd spend money on you?"

Cameron brushed off his jibe. "But…why?"

"To take pictures with," House told her. "I know, you wish I'd said something dirtier. But it's kind of hard to make a dirty joke about a camera." He stepped closer to the bed. "Take a picture of me," he instructed her. She hesitated and he said impatiently, "This is not a joke!"

Cameron raised the camera and pressed the button on top to take a picture. The Polaroid slid out of the bottom neatly. She picked up the developing picture. House handed her a pen.

"Write my name on it so you don't forget."

"But I won't forget," she insisted. "Anterograde amnesia doesn't destroy long-term memory. I'll still know who you are because I've known you since before I lost my memory."

House shrugged. "We're not taking any chances." She did as she was told. "Now flip it over," he instructed, "and write something on the back."

She flipped the photograph over. "What should I write?"

He paused for a moment and then looked at her seriously. "'Hates you for killing his best friend.' That's something I never want you to forget."

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**A/N:** So...one chapter left. Can you guess what it will be about? If you've caught onto the pattern, there is only one piece missing now. Please review!


	10. The Victim

**A/N:** I own absolutely nothing.

**A/N:** It's the end of the world as we....or at least, the story. I have a rather long note at the end, so I won't say anything here, except thank you to my reviewers from last time. Also, huge thanks to Melissa for going through two versions of this chapter. Melissa, this story is as much mine as it is yours. Thanks for coming along on the ride. iby

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"Cameron!"

He saw a fist slam into her face before hearing her grunt of pain and then the dull thud as she hit the floor. He and the assailant both froze, staring at her form on the ground, but after a few seconds, she still hadn't moved. Wilson felt panic rising… _How hard had she hit her head? Is her airway clear? Would I be able to…?_

He wasn't able to do anything. The assailant had stopped looking at Cameron and had lunged toward Wilson. Wilson quickly leapt out of the way, and the man's fist came in contact with the wall instead. The man yelped in pain, then sucked on his bleeding knuckles, and Wilson took the opportunity to dash over to Cameron. He dropped to his knees beside her and quickly rolled her onto her back. He put his ear to her mouth. _Good. Airway clear._

His relief was short-lived. He gave out a yell of pain as he felt himself being pulled to his feet by his hair. The assailant slammed him against the wall and pinned him there. Wilson shook his head slightly to clear it and then blinked several times to make sure he was seeing who he thought he saw standing in front of him.

"Terrence?" he asked in disbelief. "Terrence, how did you – what are you doing?"

"I followed you here from the hospital."

"But…why?" he asked weakly.

"You live here."

_What the hell?_ Wilson felt trepidation rising slowly. His eyes moved from Terrence to Cameron, who still hadn't moved. "No, Terrence," he said carefully. "This isn't my apartment. It's hers." He gestured to Cameron.

"No, no, no, I don't believe you," he said. "You were driving." His eyes were wide with certainty as he nodded.

"Right," replied Wilson. "I drove her home. But she lives here, not me." He felt Terrence's grip on his shoulders relax slightly. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. It worried him to see Terrence so unbalanced, especially when they were somewhere as private as Cameron's apartment. He then voiced the question that had been on his mind since he'd heard the pounding on the door. "What are you doing?"

"I want to know why," Terrence answered. "Why Maggie died. Why you let my wife die." Wilson opened his mouth to respond, but Terrence cut him off. "You said you were going to save her. You said the chemo would work. You said everything would be okay. So tell me, why is she now lying in the morgue? Does that seem _okay_ to you, Dr. Wilson?" he yelled. "Is that what okay means to you?"

"No," Wilson said softly, trying to placate Terrence, whose grasp on his shoulders had tightened again. "No, it's not okay, and I'm sorry there was nothing more I could do. There wasn't anything else I could do. She was too--"

"Then you gave me false hope!" Terrence said angrily. "You made me believe she was going to be okay and now she's -- now she's--" Terrence's voice became choked and his grip loosened. Wilson took the opportunity to reach up and grasp Terrence's hands.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "If there were more I could have done, I would have."

But Terrence was looking at him strangely. He was nodding at Wilson's words, yet his eyes were distant, as though he hadn't really heard him. Wilson felt the familiar feeling of dread coming back. What if Terrence were so unstable he'd forgotten what had happened? Wilson's fears were confirmed when he heard Terrence's reply.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "Maggie's fine."

Wilson sighed and closed his eyes. _How much of a mess was he in?_ He opened them again slowly and said gently, "Maggie passed away earlier today."

Terrence was shaking his head. "No," he said. "She's right over there." He turned and pointed to a spot on the ground.

He was pointing at Cameron.

Wilson's eyes widened and he tightened his hold on Terrence's hand. "No," he said softly, but firmly. "That's not Maggie. That's Dr. Cameron. She works in the E.R."

Terrence only shook his head harder. "No," he said, pushing away from Wilson. "No, it's Maggie!" And to Wilson's horror, Terrence rushed over to Cameron and lay down next to her on the floor. He wrapped his arms around and hugged her limp form close to his chest. Wilson couldn't decide if he'd ever seen anything more pitiable or sick.

He began to approach Terrence cautiously, not wanting to set him off again, but as he began walking toward him, he slowly pulled out his cell phone from his pocket. "Terrence?" he asked tentatively. Terrence gave no indication of even having heard him, unless Wilson counted him pulling Cameron closer still to his chest. "Terrence?" he repeated, louder this time. There was still no response. He knew it was risky to make the call with Terrence so close to him – after all, Terrence was bound to know what he was doing – but Wilson felt leaving Terrence alone with Cameron was even riskier. He took a few steps back, but remained close enough to see everything Terrence was doing. Terrence was leaning over Cameron's ear, murmuring incoherent words to her.

Wilson flipped open his phone and quickly dialed the three numbers.

"911, what is your emergency?"

Wilson angled his body slightly away from Terrence so his words were slightly muffled, and quickly relayed the necessary information. The dispatcher said an ambulance would be there shortly. Letting out a sigh of relief that Cameron was finally going to get some help, Wilson turned back to Terrence.

Terrence was no longer next to Cameron.

Wilson frowned. He had only turned his body away from them for a moment. Cameron still hadn't moved and Wilson couldn't see Terrence anywhere. He took a few tentative steps towards her, but he hadn't managed to get more than halfway there when he suddenly felt a blinding pain at the back of his head.

He cried out as he fell to the floor. Dazed, he vaguely saw the kitchen stool Terrence was swinging before it hit his head for a second time, this time in the face. He felt the wood collide with his nose and break it. Blood poured down his face. He tried to stand up, but the room began spinning.

"Terrence," he rasped, spitting out blood. "What are you doing?"

"Why did you call the police?" Terrence yelled and Wilson detected the fear in his voice. "Why would you do that?"

"I didn't!" Wilson told him, holding his hand to his face to put pressure on the bleeding. "I didn't! I called an ambulance. Dr. Cameron needs an ambulance."

"My wife is sleeping," Terrence responded. "Why are you trying to take her away from me?"

"No, Terrence!" Wilson insisted loudly. "Your wife is dead. I'm sorry, but she's dead. But Dr. Cameron needs medical assistance." Terrence didn't reply, but instead swung the stool at Wilson's head again. Wilson ducked, but the swift motion made his head spin. "Please, Terrence," he said, nearly blinded by pain. "Is this what Maggie would want?"

"I'll never know what she wanted!" Terrence roared. "You took her away from me! You're taking her away from me again! I won't let you do that!"

Wilson barely had time to defend himself before Terrence grasped his shoulders roughly and threw him against the wall. He couldn't think any more. He tried to raise his arms to fend off the blows, but his arms felt like they were full of lead. Terrence began beating him over and over with the stool, and then suddenly the stool had broken, and he began using his fists. Terrence's fists were hitting his chest over and over, and then his face, and then his head, and everything hurt so much he couldn't comprehend the pain anymore, and all he could think about was Maggie and Cameron and House and where was that ambulance and why wasn't it coming and would it ever get here in time or would this pain be the last thing he felt…that and guilt for killing Maggie or maybe he hadn't killed her because Cameron said he hadn't and oh God, how pissed was House going to be when he found out what happened…

Her eyes snapped open to an unfamiliar scene. She could have sworn she had known where she was, but she didn't recognize anything.

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**Author's Note:**

Wow…I just can't believe it's over! I never imagined that when I followed someone's recommendation to watch _Memento_ (which was the movie that inspired this story, as many of you mentioned in reviews. If you haven't seen it, I highly recommend it – and you can watch for free on Youtube!) it would lead to something like this. This story has been a real adventure to write. Planning a story that is simultaneously told forwards and backwards was no easy feat, but it was so exciting to plant the clues along the way and see it all come together in the end

To that end, if there is something that is unclear about this story – if you are still unclear about what happened – please, please, please mention it in a review. I debated whether or not to include an explanation of the story at the end, in chronological order, so that you all understood what had happened, but I hope that my writing was clear enough that such an explanation would not be needed. However, if you have any questions or want any clarification about any details, please ask because I'd love to hear from you!

Regarding anterograde amnesia and my interpretation of it…If you've seen the movie _50 First Dates_, Lucy has anterograde amnesia and is unaware she has it, which is why she relives the same day over and over. In _Memento_, the protagonist was aware of his condition. In other words, the media has portrayed anterograde amnesia differently, probably because not much about this condition is known/agreed upon. It's very rare in real life, but very popular in media (which is true of any rare medical condition, really). I decided to follow _Memento_ and have Cameron aware of her condition, mostly for literary reasons, as it would get tedious for someone to have to continuously explain to Cameron why she couldn't remember anything.

I want to thank each and every one of you that has put this story (or me!) on your alert or favorites list. I would encourage you, as this is the last chapter, to leave a review this time. Just let me know what you enjoyed about this story enough to put it on one of your lists. Pretty please?

I also want to extend another special thanks to all my reviewers. You are my encouragement and I write for you. The fact there are people out there reading this story and enjoying it validates the hours of time and energy I put into this work.

To anyone reading this story, even if it's days or weeks or months or years from now, please let me know what you thought. I appreciate all comments, positive or negative; the negative ones only help me improve. If you don't have an account, don't worry; I've enabled anonymous reviews for you. Thank you in advance to my anonymous reviewers since I won't be able to reply personally to your reviews. I wish that I could, but it's just not possible.

I do want to say one thing about this story and that is about the Latin chapter titles and story title. To save you time going to Wikipedia to find the Latin phrases used (all of which I got from Wikipedia's Latin phrases in English page), I will provide the translations below:

A Priori: Before Knowledge

Diem Perdidi: Lost Day

Multa Paucis: Say Much in Few Words

Obiter Dictum: A Thing Said in Passing

A Posteriori: After Knowledge

Cetera Desunt: Doubt Everything

So what's next from me? Well, as many of you know, I am currently writing Under the Same Moon, which is set during season 1 and is about Cameron working for Doctors Without Borders in South Africa. As much as I love Cetera Desunt, I have to say I might love Under the Same Moon even more – unlike most of my other stories, it is not a tragedy and it is not ambiguous. So if you're looking for something lighter, I recommend it to you.

In addition to Under the Same Moon, I will be starting a seven-chapter piece called One Second to Die. It will be - *ducks* - Chameron, though as you've probably noticed, just because there is a pairing doesn't make my story a romance fic. I don't do romance, and as you can probably tell from the title, this story is not going to be a happy smut story. Even if you're a Hameron person (and you know I am!) I encourage you to at least give it a try before saying no.

I think that's all from me for now. I will be updating Under the Same Moon again soon. Thank you, once more, for sticking with this story and for joining me on the ride. It's been amazing and I couldn't have done it without you!

-holadios


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